


A New Brother, A New Father

by eris_of_imladris



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Finwe's A+ Parenting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-12 10:32:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12957348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris_of_imladris/pseuds/eris_of_imladris
Summary: After the birth of Nolofinwë, Fëanor seeks another home. I can add more if people want, I know what happens next, but at the moment it's a two-shot :)This fic is inspired by the premise of this story: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690364/chapters/26318286 (Credit: silvertrails) combined with one of my favorite literary tropes, King Incognito.





	1. Chapter 1

The boy arrived at midday, when Nerdanel and her mother were putting away the dishes from their afternoon meal. He rode over the horizon with fire in his eyes, and when he arrived, he looked all around.

“Is Mahtan here?” he asked curtly.

“No, he’s out for the day,” Nerdanel’s mother replied.

“May I go to his forge?” he asked, more politely this time.

“Why?”

“I am one of his apprentices, and I know he has an order for a great number of horseshoes to go out soon. I thought I would help.”

Nerdanel looked at her mother, whose gaze told her to not be concerned, but perhaps to follow. Maybe the boy looked familiar enough to her, but all of her father’s apprentices looked the same to Nerdanel. “All right,” she said, and the boy took off, heading in a known direction, making for the forge.

Nerdanel followed for a short while, but the boy did exactly what he said - he took up one of the stations and began attacking the metal with anything but finesse, his hammer clanging and ringing out, and then when the shoes began to emerge, he took a lighter approach, his fingers moving nimbly over the metal until each piece was done.

Content that he was who he said, Nerdanel did not watch him for long, but when her father rode up several hours later, as Nerdanel was helping her mother set the plates for dinner, his eyebrows rose in alarm when he heard a methodical clanging noise. “Who is in my forge?”

“One of your apprentices,” Nerdanel said.

“None of my apprentices were supposed to come in today,” Mahtan said, and he swung his leg over the horse and raced towards the forge. About to scream and disrupt the intruder, he was instead surprised that he recognized the young man, and the horseshoes by his side were piled so high he could barely see the boy’s black hair or sweaty leather apron.

“Lad,” he called out, and the boy turned to face him, leaving his project on the table.

“I apologize for coming without your knowledge, but I thought I would help with the horseshoes,” the boy replied, sweeping his hand out to show his progress. It was remarkable to Mahtan, but this apprentice was capable of that, he knew.

“It looks like fine work,” he praised the boy. “Any idea how many?”

“One hundred,” the boy replied, “well, this is the hundredth.”

Mahtan picked up the shoe that rested on the table and passed it between his hands. “Sturdy, perfect shape, even all around… if the others are like this, there’s no reason to think that they’re anything less than perfect.”

“Thank you,” the boy said, something strange in his eyes, and Mahtan thought he had an idea of what it might be. He didn’t know for sure, but he knew enough of the day’s significance and the productivity the boy had displayed in his forge to know that something had to have gone wrong.

“I was just heading inside to eat,” Mahtan said. “Have you eaten today?”

“No,” the boy said, as if it was a surprise to him.

“Anything to drink?”

“No,” the boy said sheepishly.

“That’s just dangerous, lad - you’ve got folks who care about you, you can’t just work a day like that without drinking at all. You could have a heat stroke,” Mahtan scolded lightly, but he could tell from the boy’s face that there was already something going on, and he didn’t want to be too harsh.

The boy shook his head lightly. “With all due respect, master, I disagree,” he said.

“About what? You can’t question the heat stroke,” Mahtan said, “and…” He paused, taking in the look on the boy’s face, the way he wore a shirt that was too nice beneath the leather apron, and fine breeches rather than his smithing clothes. He had never shown up like this before, unannounced, nor had he ever been so productive in so little time. “You do have folks who care about you,” Mahtan said.

“You are very kind, master,” he said.

“I do not only speak for myself. It may be hard to believe, but you are loved,” he said.

“Not today,” the boy said ominously as he stepped through the door, making polite courtesies to Nerdanel and her mother before stepping over to the washing basin, cleaning the worst of the soot off his hands.

Mahtan remembered when, several years back, the boy’s stepmother had given birth to a baby girl, a golden-haired baby who his father fussed over incredibly. Then, the boy had been distracted during the day, and he had worked hard, but not like this, nothing like this. That was all he could think of, although perhaps he had quarreled with his father in addition to his stepmother, but something was clearly bothering him.

“Wife, set the table for one more, we have a guest for dinner,” Mahtan called out, taking off his traveling cloak and setting it over his chair.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as she brought out the napkin and silverware.

“I do not know yet,” he replied, “but the lad is dear to me, and I will not have him feeling like this for naught.”

The boy returned, surprised to find a place at the table for him next to his master. “You did not need to do this,” he said softly.

“You are welcome in my home, I told you this, and I told your father this,” Mahtan announced after the family prayed together.

“Perhaps he will take you up on it,” the boy said sarcastically. “Although I am sure you do not need a son, with your daughter’s skills.”

Mahtan looked over at his wife before turning to the boy, who hesitantly took some of the food in front of him, a small amount. “Take more, lad, you must be hungry from all that work,” he said.

“I did not realize how hungry I was until just now,” he replied, but he took an extra spoonful before passing it over to Nerdanel.

“Would you care to explain what you meant earlier?” he asked after the boy had taken a few bites of food.

“I… I would not bother you with my family matters, master. You are responsible for my craft.”

“And in order to do that craft, you must be well - anger can only carry you so far. It works well for tasks like horseshoes, but I don’t intend to keep you there forever,” Mahtan said.

The boy sighed, scratched the back of his neck, and then spoke a simple sentence: “He has my name.”

The four words told Mahtan all he needed to know, but he had no idea how to actually solve the situation. He tried to think like his wife, who now stared at him confusedly - what would she do? She would try to make him feel understood, and heard, and like he had a voice, when he was feeling like one had been taken away.

“It was wrong to do that,” Mahtan said, and the boy’s head lifted up. “It was disrespectful to you and who you are, and it only builds the case against him.”

“I knew you would see it,” the boy said eagerly. “I knew it. And I knew - this is not stupid of me, is it?”

“For your father to take your name? Not stupid at all. It is callous and I think he might have gotten ahead of himself without thinking of you.”

“He certainly did not think of me, seeing as I have been gone all day without leaving word,” the boy said, taking some bread and scooping some of the sauce onto it, taking a large bite.

“You did not tell him where you were going?”

“I did not tell him that I was going,” he clarified. “But my apron is missing, and I have only one smithing master, so I should not be very hard to find.”

It was another test, Mahtan could see - the boy was fond of tests, of trying to figure out what was going on in people’s minds, and he took the evidence as facts. Contrary to his reputation, he was more than capable of being patient, but he needed there to be some sort of reason for the patience, something he was waiting for. The longer he waited, the more he thought he was uncared for, the more his anger must have grown.

“Today is a busy day for him, perhaps he has not yet left the room,” Mahtan said softly.

“I do not doubt that, but…” He sighed, taking his fork and poking at some of the vegetables. “Do you think I am stupid?”

“Stupid? Where in the world did you get that idea?”

“From… I do not wish to say, but someone I care about has called me stupid by association.”

“You are one of the brightest Eldar I have ever met, lad,” Mahtan said. “Smart does not even begin to describe it. You have a keen mind like I have seen in few cases before.” He paused, taking in the look on the boy’s face, before he added, “Who called you stupid?”

“No one called me stupid, but when you point at me and you point at something with the intelligence of a rock, and then you call the rock wise, what does that make me?” He speared a green bean angrily.

“Some may have wished to praise the other, but it is inconsiderate, and rude, especially that you did not know beforehand or have any time to react.”

“Or any place - how was I supposed to react in front of my father? I do still love him, even after all he has said and done, even after every fight we have had. But now I cannot help but wonder…” He speared another green bean. “If you are looking for someone in his position, do you look for someone skilled in a forge, or do you seek someone wise?”

It took Mahtan no time to understand what the boy was saying, although the rest of his family looked confused. “You cannot possibly think he means to disown you,” Mahtan said.

“I cannot help but wonder,” the boy repeated. “Why else would he do this?”

“For the love of others, and he seems to have forgotten…”

“Yes, he has forgotten that he has a firstborn son who he made promises to, who he swore he would love and care for no matter what.”

“You do not know this will happen,” Mahtan said.

“It has been happening slowly over the years, and this is… a heavy blow,” he admitted.

Mahtan placed his hand over the boy’s. “I will tell you this - you always have a spot at my forge, and a home in my home, but I believe your father will come around. Did you quarrel?”

“I did not stay long enough to begin one,” the boy said. “I left when I felt the anger getting too heavy, and I rode out here and made the shoes.”

“That is the mark of a wise man, whatever anyone may say,” Mahtan said, squeezing the boy’s hand. “A lesser man would have stayed and let his anger take advantage of him, but you turned yours into something productive.”

“Thank you,” the boy said, and a few tears began falling from his eyes. He hastily stood up, only to find himself in Mahtan’s large, strong arms. He allowed himself to cry for a brief moment, then whispered a word into Mahtan’s ear.

The master smith looked surprised and saddened when he sat back down. “I can understand your anger, and your pain,” he said.

“It is not fair,” the boy replied. “Simply by virtue of who he is, he has so much more than what I can ever hope to have, plus the looks.”

“You are not ugly,” Mahtan said, looking over at the women to support his claim.

“I never said I was ugly, but I do have some of my mother’s features, and…”

“Which is something to be proud of,” Mahtan said.

“Not if it makes me look less like my father,” he replied. “How am I supposed to compete?”

“This is not a matter where you should need to compete,” Mahtan said.

“But I would be a fool to trust that I do not need to,” the boy replied solemnly as he ate his last forkful. “Thank you for dinner, it was excellent,” he said to Mahtan’s wife.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Will you be staying for tea?”

“He will stay as long as he needs,” Mahtan said, and when his wife took the dishes to the kitchen, he followed her.

“This might be a problem, if he needs to stay for a long period of time,” she said.

“Trust me, if he has no home to go back to tomorrow, we have much bigger problems than a boy sleeping in our house.”


	2. Chapter 2

He woke the next morning to the smell of something cooking, and he sat up, drawing the thin blanket that had been left out for him around his shoulders. Mahtan’s wife – it struck him that he did not know her name – was cooking. “Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning, I hope my presence here has not been a problem,” he replied. “Did I oversleep?”

“It’s not a problem at all, Mahtan spoke very highly of you, and I know he does not speak highly of many of his apprentices,” the woman said, not answering his other question. Her attire did that for itself; she was already wearing her robes for the day, and Laurelin’s light was much higher as it streamed through the window than he was used to.

The boy chuckled, thinking of the way he had snapped at two of the boys several days before, refusing to let them touch any of their tools until they had cleaned the forge to Mahtan’s exacting standards. “True indeed,” he said.

“I do want you to know I will support you if I can, and I know Nerdanel would be pleased to help as well,” she said before whistling three high notes, and Nerdanel entered the room, followed by Mahtan.

“I hope the accommodations worked for you, lad,” Mahtan said, patting the chair beside him. “I know they’re not what you’re used to, but it’s what we could do.”

“I will be forever grateful,” the boy said, standing up and trying to rub the crinkles out of his hair where had slept on it strangely.

Just as the family was sitting down to breakfast, several loud knocks were heard coming from the main doorway, and Mahtan gave the boy a smile and a pat to the shoulder before he stood up and approached the door. “Who is there?”

“Telvo, sir, you had promised to teach me some gem–setting today, if you have time, sir,” the voice warbled out, and the boy at the table sighed before the newcomer spoke again. “Also, there was a strange ellon out here – he seems to have followed me, after he asked me who my smith–master is. He is outside, but I did not let him through the gates.”

“You have done well,” Mahtan said. “Go to the forge and start stoking the fires – like I showed you, not carelessly – and I will be there soon. I have something else to finish first.” He leaned back into the sitting room and called out, “Lad? I think there’s someone here for you.”

The boy’s expression changed, but he still did not look entirely happy, almost as if he doubted Mahtan’s words. He stood up from the chair gracefully and made his way to the doorway, trying again to smooth down his hair. A question lingered in his eyes, and Mahtan had a good feeling as to what the boy was looking for. Hopefully, he would get the correct answer.

Mahtan could tell, as soon as he could distinguish light brown hair on the stranger, that the boy’s posture changed. He slumped over slightly, and his eyes seemed dull again, as if he were learning anew of his father’s apparent lack of love. Nevertheless, he continued to walk by Mahtan’s side, and he inclined his head politely when Mahtan did so.

“Who are you, and what do you seek?” Mahtan asked, a certain gruffness in his voice.

“My master’s son disappeared sometime yesterday, and I think he may have come by here. Have you seen him?”

The boy looked incredulously over at Mahtan. “Who sent you?” Mahtan asked, although both he and the boy recognized the emblem on the newcomer’s armor.

“I am sent from King Finwë,” he said, “who searches for his son, Curufinwë. Is he here?”

Fëanor stood next to Mahtan, his posture tense, sweat pouring from his face. He looked like he was about to confront his father himself, and the thought gave Mahtan no comfort. Was the boy truly so nervous to see what would happen to him if he went home? Were things truly that dire?

As his wife had said, he did not spend much time looking into the home lives of his apprentices, although that was mostly because there were so many of them that he hardly had time to divide the projects and run the smithy effectively, let alone work with them each to that degree. Plus, most of them had an atar and amil who were supportive, who helped them grow, and there was no need for an extra parental figure for most of the lads.

And then there was Fëanor, whose eyes blazed with passion and whose raw talent rivaled Mahtan’s many years of skill, and all of it could be halted by an inconsiderate word from an atar who didn’t seem to care much about his son’s well–being.

“You know of whom I speak, yes?” the stranger said, eyeing Mahtan after several long moments of silence.

“I do,” Mahtan said. “He’s one of my finest apprentices.”

“No doubt,” the stranger replied all too quickly.

“You’ve met him?” Mahtan asked.

“I cannot say I have, but his father is grand and noble, and of course, he must be the same.”

Mahtan noticed how Fëanor looked like he wanted to burst out in laughter, and realized exactly how much control the boy displayed on a daily basis. The forge must have truly been his escape, his way of letting the stress out upon metal that would not care if it was pounded into dust.

“He’s far more than that,” Mahtan said. “Talented beyond your imagination, and such a hard worker, sometimes I’m surprised he doesn’t work himself to death.”

The stranger nodded. “His father is much the same,” he said.

“What’s your name? If we find him, we will need to tell him who’s calling upon him,” the smith said, adding some encouragement when he didn’t look like he would speak.

“We have never met,” he clarified, and Mahtan noticed a grin on Fëanor’s face. “I have only heard about his bravery and skill from his father, and I hear that he looks like his father as well.”

This was nearly impossible to not laugh at, considering that Fëanor was standing right there, walking alongside Mahtan and the stranger, waiting, doubtlessly, for some opportunity to prove his intelligence or his cunning. Those were the qualities that had been insulted by the new baby’s name, and Mahtan was sure that the boy would want revenge, in his own way.

“And why do you think he is here?” Mahtan asked, sure that was the next question in Fëanor’s head.

“His father said he was an apprentice here and I knew this was a smithy of great repute, fitting of a prince, and thought I would seek him here.” Now even Mahtan wished to roll his eyes in the stranger’s face.

“Many boys work here,” Mahtan said, “and each is talented.”

“I assume he is one of yours?” the stranger looked over at Fëanor, who continued to keep his mouth shut.

“One of mine – yes, one of my senior apprentices,” Mahtan said. He nudged Fëanor. His father truly needed to know about the promotion; it was something greatly important, and perhaps that would be a matter of pride for the father in the son. It was only when he noticed Fëanor’s tentative smile that he truly understood.

The boy burned bright like a fire, as his mother–name predicted, and he always purported that fire worked alone, that he had no need of anyone in a role more than professional. He was a careful student, always listened to Mahtan, but there had always been a boundary there, at least until last night when it came crumbling down in the face of the birth of Fëanor’s half–brother. For some things, although he pretended he didn’t need it, there was a great part of him that needed to be appreciated by others as an Elda, and perhaps even loved. Perhaps a reaction from Finwë that was anything less than stellar would hurt the boy more than he wanted to admit, and as someone very conscious of his weaknesses, perhaps the boy had decided it was too risky, especially with his stepmother’s pregnancy.

“I can show you to the forge,” Fëanor suddenly said, taking several confident steps forward. When the stranger didn’t immediately follow, he turned around and beheld him curiously.

“A strong lad – does the prince look like that as well?” the stranger asked, his eyes fixed on the muscles protruding from Fëanor’s tunic, a byproduct of his work that set him apart from many courtiers.

“Why do you want to know?” Mahtan replied before Fëanor could speak again.

“I was curious – and I find it interesting, of course, that His Majesty’s eldest son is a smith rather than studying literature.”

“Interesting?” Fëanor said, knowing the coded meaning behind the word all too well.

“There are some – not myself, of course – but some who say that it is unseemly for a prince to look like a common worker.”

A flush spread across Fëanor’s cheeks as Mahtan asked, “Must a prince study literature constantly in order to be good in his position?”

“Well, no – it’s simply unexpected,” the stranger quickly retracted when he noticed the look on Mahtan’s face. “It’s simply that Finwë himself is a scholar, and that is what I – we – have been accustomed to.”

“To be honest, I can see many skills for a future king in a smith, even if it is not the typical path,” Mahtan said coolly. “There is a certain art to working with metal, to bending something unbendable to your will – and yet, gently enough to ensure the metal will not break. It is not simply swinging a hammer around wildly and gaining power, but rather, the application of the power to create something wonderful. Should not every king concern himself with that?”

Fëanor nearly stopped in his tracks. He had never asked Mahtan’s opinion about this matter before, although he knew that there were those who thought he was strange for seeking out the smithy instead of the library, and perhaps hoped for the new, “wiser” son of Finwë to take control, infant though he was. 

The stranger nodded before turning to Fëanor himself. “Do you know the prince, lad?”

Fëanor, to his credit, did not stop walking, nor did his steps even slow. He continued on the way to the forge, casually picking up a hammer leaning against one of the outlying buildings. “I do,” he said.

"And what is he like?"

“In what way?” He tried to be as terse as possible, to try to figure out how to maneuver through this situation. In some way, it was almost fun, and his brain was going a mile a minute.

The stranger paused. “Well, I suppose… how does he treat others? Does he truly have fire in his veins? And… does he have the skill others think he does, or is that simply sycophantism at its best?”

The irony of this Elda asking about sycophants was hilarious to Fëanor, but he kept a straight face, creating a story as he went along, weaving a tale of the prince that somehow matched everything the stranger had on his mind. It took nearly all of his self-control to not exclaim his identity then and there, but he had waited long enough. He could wait a little while longer, if only to make the revenge that much sweeter.

Tears of laughter prickled at his eyes as he watched the stranger, casually walking over to his own station and watching out of the corner of his eye as the stranger approached apprentice after apprentice, only for each to shake his head. The stranger rounded the bend, asking more and more boys, exasperation showing on his face until he finally raised his voice. “Does anyone know where Curufinwë is?”

“Can you stop yelling? We’re trying to work!” a nearby boy grumbled.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me where he is, then?” he asked.

The boy looked at him as though he had lost his mind. “He’s right behind you, maybe if you’d stop walking past him a hundred times, you’d know.”

The ellon turned around quickly, his eyes darting around the workshop only to land on the one smith directly behind him, the one who had walked over with him.

“That’s him?”

“Who are you expecting, one of the Valar?” the boy scoffed. “Go and talk to him if you want, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to work over here.”

The ellon made his way back to the young smith gingerly, watching the precision with which he tackled his metal. He did truly seem skilled, even to his untutored eye, and the rhythmic way in which he brought his hammer down on the metal was hypnotizing. It seemed like he was so deeply involved in his work that he didn’t notice the newcomer, but he soon put the hammer down and turned around.

“So, to answer your questions,” he said in a completely serious voice, “I do look like this, I am not half–bad at what I do, and I spend more than my share of time in libraries when I am not here.”

“Forgive me, I did not know – ”

“Obviously not,” Fëanor said.

A long awkward silence passed between the pair, eventually broken by the stranger when he realized Fëanor had no intentions of doing so. “Your father sent me to retrieve you,” he said.

“To retrieve me? Am I some possession of his that has gotten lost?"

“No, not at all, my prince,” he said, and something in Fëanor’s eyes let him know that he was enjoying watching him squirm. “I simply meant that he is wondering where you are, and asked me, if I found you, to bring you back home.”

“Was it he who noticed?” Fëanor pressed, and Mahtan nodded from the corner. He knew the boy would act like this once provoked, and now that he had the upper hand, he was going to try to do everything he could to get the information he desired.

“Who noticed what, my prince?”

Ordinarily, Fëanor might have disputed the use of his title in everything he said, but with the day’s events, he seemed more than content to let it continue. “Who noticed I was gone since yesterday morning? Was it my father, or someone else?” When he didn’t receive an immediate answer, he added, “Or do you not know, are you perhaps not close enough to the situation at hand?"

“I was there in the… in the room,” he protested.

“So was half of Valinor,” Fëanor said. “Enough that I was able to slip free and no one noticed.”

“If I may ask, my prince… why did you leave?”

“Someone wise once told me that it is best to live your life where you are wanted, and I thought it to be very wise.”

The double meaning of the sentence was apparently lost on the stranger, who said, “No one ever said you were not wise,” he said, and Fëanor rolled his eyes.

“So, I need you to be my eyes and ears. What went on?”

“The Queen – ”

“The Lady Indis,” Fëanor interrupted, then when the stranger fell silent, he urged him, “Please, continue.”

“The Lady Indis,” he said awkwardly, “was receiving a great many visitors, and I would have thought family would have been most important…” An unasked question remained in his words.

“Yes, family of the child, of course,” Fëanor said, then fell silent again.

“There was a celebration beginning in mid–day,” he added, “and there was a great deal of fanfare. The young princess was there, along with several other children, and nannies.”

“And at what point was it noticed that I was not there?”

“I… I honestly do not know,” the stranger said, looking more awkward by the second. “I was not invited to the later festivities at the Mingling, nor to anything that may have happened after. I was walking through the halls this morning when someone found me and told me about the situation, and that King Finwë would be grateful.”

“Which sounded wonderful to you, what with the need to ingratiate yourself with the royal family,” Fëanor filled in the blanks, “and now, you are here.” The ellon nodded, looking all too sweaty even in the heat of the forge. “What do you want from me?”

“To come with me,” he said, then added a hesitant, “I suppose, my prince – although I have no capacity to order you to do anything, I do come from your father.”

“Not directly,” Fëanor noted.

“No, not directly, but I have met King Finwë before, and he seems as one who cares about his children,” he said, and for the first time that day, Fëanor let himself laugh.

“I was unaware you were a jester, sir,” he said, but there was no mirth in his voice.

“Perhaps we ought to continue this conversation outside?” Mahtan approached and asked, and the two stepped into the light of Laurelin.

“Come to think of it, you do look like him,” the stranger muttered.

“I do,” Fëanor said. “And yet, when one is wearing simpler clothes and no jewels, it is all too easy to mistake them for someone easy to manipulate.”

“I meant no offense, my prince,” he replied.

“I find our little chat was in fact more educational than I was expecting,” Fëanor said. “I must thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome?”

“And now, you wish to know if I will return with you.” Fëanor drew out the silence a little longer to make it extra awkward, then added, “I will be back tomorrow. I have an order to finish, and a delivery to make.”

“Surely, one of the other apprentices can do that?”

“After my promotion, I am rather keen to do it myself – I’m sure you understand,” Fëanor said.

It hadn’t been the reaction Mahtan thought he would get from Fëanor, but he supposed it was another way for the boy to fight back. Fire never died when the circumstances were rough, it took over, it blazed all the brighter in a smaller space, and the crown prince was no different. And there was a certain eagerness in his eyes that let him know that Fëanor was truly looking forward to encountering Aulë in his great forges, meeting one of the Valar, even if it meant he would humble himself rather than go home to his position of privilege.

“I’m sure you understand I have responsibilities,” Fëanor said, trying to turn the stranger’s next argument in his favor before it was even made.

“There are also responsibilities to family,” he said gingerly.

“And that would be true, if it were a matter of family,” Fëanor replied, standing his ground.

“It is,” the Elda hesitantly offered.

“A matter dear to my father’s heart, true,” he said, and Mahtan, from his years of knowing Fëanor, recognized the pain in his keen blue eyes. “But he has no need of me today, just as he had no need of me yesterday. I am sure he would not mind if I finished the order and delivered it to Aulë’s workshop today, rather than tomorrow. We wouldn’t want to keep a Vala waiting, after all."

“Perhaps he does have need of you – I did not ask, but perhaps the need is there,” the stranger said.

“Believe me, it is not,” Fëanor insisted. “He has a new family to tend to him, and surely a day can go by without me.” It was a little too true to home, but he found his anger mounting, and pushing past even the boundaries he set up for himself.

The stranger looked completely overwhelmed and confused, and Fëanor tried once more: “I have a delivery for Aulë today, and I do not wish to be late. If there is nothing else?” When the stranger stayed silent again, he continued, “You may tell him where I am, and if he seeks me, to know that I am safe, and I will of course obey his word as his son.”

As soon as he freed himself of the sycophant, Fëanor looked over at Mahtan, a world of hurt in his eyes only barely concealed by humiliation and rage. Mahtan was quick to assemble the delivery, but he could not help but wonder if the great fire that his apprentice was known for would burn out before it even had a chance to shine.


End file.
